


the world was wide enough

by drunkonwriting



Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Fix it AU, Gen, HAMILTON LIVES AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-28 05:51:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5080159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drunkonwriting/pseuds/drunkonwriting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Later, Aaron will say that it's because of the sun and good-luck that Hamilton survives.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	the world was wide enough

**Author's Note:**

> so i just cried for the nth time during 'the world was wide enough' and 'who lives, who dies, who tells your story' so my solution was to write a quick fic where HAMILTON DOESN'T DIE. this was literally like a ten minute fic hahahaha i'm so fucking sad.

Later, Aaron will say that it's because of the sun and good-luck that Hamilton survives. Their seconds are counting, Aaron has a clammy, tight grip on his hand, watching Hamilton across from him, steel-eyed and calm as he's never looked before. During the War, Hamilton had been riding a constant manic high, too restless and eager to ever be mature, sensible. Now, with grey in his hair and lines on his face, he reminds Aaron a little of Washington, who carried that stoic majesty around him like a cloak of honor. 

They're almost at ten, almost there, and Aaron's arm is seizing up. He's such a terrible shot and Hamilton's wearing his glasses and—

_Ten, places, fire!_

Aaron lifts his arm. He's about to pull the trigger when his eye catches a glint of silver flash—the sun reflecting off of Hamilton's gun, which he isn't pointing, which he is lifting and firing up to the sky. Shocked, Aaron jerks his arm even as his finger closes around the trigger. _Shit, shit—_

But he hears no cry of pain, no panicked shouts. Slowly, he lowers his gun. Across from him, Hamilton does the same, an inscrutable expression on his face. Their seconds hurry over. 

"Thank god," William says. "Oh my—I really thought you were going to shoot him! And he aimed his pistol—"

"—to the sky," Aaron finishes, numb. "Yes, I saw just in time."

"Are we settled, Mr. Burr?" Hamilton asks, tucking his gun back at his waist as he strides forward. 

Aaron notices, a little shocked, that Hamilton's hands are trembling. Was it the closeness of death, he wonders, or something else? Hamilton had been off this entire morning, and his unprecedented retreat only makes Aaron more sure that there's something wrong.

"Yes," Aaron says. "I am satisfied."

Hamilton regards him for a long moment. With the glasses on, he seems like a different person. Then, he smiles—and that mischievous, wry grin is so familiar that Aaron almost relaxes. 

"Probably for the best," Hamilton says. "You really are a terrible shot, Burr." 

He gestures behind him. It takes Aaron a minute to locate the bullet hole in the tree, slightly above Hamilton's height. 

"Why did you throw your shot, Hamilton?" he asks.

Hamilton's face darkens. The smile disappears. But his eyes, so bright and dark, like a small, quick bird's, don't lose any of their vivacity.

"You know, you were my first friend when I came to this country?" he asks. Aaron has to swallow around his discomfort. "I just… realized I didn't want to kill you, Burr. My heart's been through enough already."

Perhaps that wasn't it, Aaron thinks. He had to know that Aaron might not follow suit—after all, hadn't the same exact thing happened to young Phillip Hamilton not so long ago? Aaron remembers the Alexander Hamilton of the War—reckless, foolhardy, plunging into danger after danger. His repeated longing to die for the cause. Aaron had thought he'd been cured of that when he married Eliza and had his children, got the recognition he wanted, but perhaps….

Perhaps not.

He offers a hand. Hamilton stares at it for a long moment, then takes it. He has a small, warm palm, callused fingers. 

"I'm glad I didn't kill you either, Hamilton," he says.

Hamilton searches his face. Then, slowly, he smiles.


End file.
